


Knock-back

by valderys



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Dubious Consent, First Time, M/M, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-02
Updated: 2011-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-14 08:43:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/147451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valderys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Detective Sergeant Lestrade meets Sherlock Holmes is at a drugs bust. It means Sherlock's in trouble - doesn't it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knock-back

**Author's Note:**

> Writen for the Authority Figures square of my Kink_bingo card.

Lestrade hates working drug busts. He hates the losers and the cowards and the weak, all of whom think becoming a junkie will make their lives better when it only makes them worse. He's sickened by it all, but he's also got to do his stint on the way up the greasy pole. CID will wake up and promote him soon, he's almost sure. In the meantime, he's reduced to raiding sorry places like this one, a council flat only one step up from a squat, with one dealer, one junkie girlfriend slash street tom, and his client.

It's the client that interests Lestrade the most. He lets his officers book the dealer and his girl, who are no strangers to the procedure, while Lestrade looks over the client. He's young, but that's not unusual. He's dressed in dark slacks, a white shirt, and a dark scarf. His eyes are darting quickly up and down, faster than normal, but he doesn't look high. Not yet. He's the nervy type, who looks naturally like that, Lestrade decides. He hasn't quite the air of the nutters on PCP, for example.

"Are you going to come quietly for me then?" Lestrade tries in a reasonable tone, and is surprised when the long pale features quirk up into abrupt humour, that disappears just as fast. Somewhat like its owner, who vanishes into the next room really quite as suddenly, leaving Lestrade gaping and flat-footed. It annoys him. Here he was, prepared to give some leeway to a youngster not used to the way things are, and his patience has been abused. He shakes his head at his men when they start forward. God forbid he looks weak, and the boy may have only panicked. Besides, there's no way out of that bedroom, he's already checked.

The door's jammed, but it can't handle his sturdy size elevens kicking it in for long. Lestrade puts his hand through the hole and removes the hastily placed chair. There's a spurt of laughter abruptly cut off, and Lestrade can see that he may be too late, at least to book the boy for possession. A window's open and he'll bet anything that the cocaine's been tipped out of it, enriching London's winds. Or maybe - not quite all of it. The boy's eyes are glassy now, his pupils bigger and his cheeks slowly flushing. He licks his lips like his tongue is slightly too big. There's a tell-tale grain of white at one nostril and it would be enough to book him if Lestrade felt so inclined. It would be a bugger though. Not as open and shut as he liked. Blood tests would have to be involved. Blood tests and _hassle_.

He strides into the room, and he must look as annoyed as he feels, because the boy goes, "Sorry, Detective Sergeant, but it had to be done."

Lestrade snorts his disdain. "I should take you in for obstruction." But it's an empty threat, because that would be even more hassle, and the boy seems to know it. He smiles again, looking smug.

"I couldn't let you do that, think of all the paperwork involved. You'd end up working overtime again, and your wife wouldn't like it. She'd have to walk the dog again, and border collies are so energetic. She might exile you to the sofa for another night, and all because some smart-mouthed kid made your job more difficult. I couldn't allow that. If I say sorry, would it make you feel better? I am, you know."

Lestrade looks at him with his mouth open. How can the boy know all that? Is this some kind of set up? One of his colleagues messing around?

"I don't know what you're playing at, but I'd like you to stop it," he says, heavily, "You're in some serious trouble here."

He's trying for stern but he's not so sure he's conveyed it properly. Here he is, a detective sergeant with ten years on the Force, and yet he's rattled. A snot-nosed brat with an inside tip has rattled him.

"Ah, yes, you won't have heard of me - my fame hasn't spread much beyond Cambridge and my own home county at the moment." He smiles again, a wider, more manic smile, and Lestrade knows that the coke has begun to kick in. "That's Sussex, by the way. And my name is Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. I'm hoping the lack of fame thing will change. In fact, I know it will change - at some point. Which is why an arrest for drugs would be most inconvenient at the moment, you see. A caution wouldn't be so bad, but an actual arrest might put um... a cramp in my style. Yes."

The boy - Sherlock - is making his way over to him now, and while Lestrade was expecting that, would have ordered just that in another second, somehow it's different when it's at the instigation of this gangling young man. He knows too much, he knows things he shouldn't, and he isn't stopping...

The room isn't big. There is a cheap plasterboard wardrobe, a table, a bed, and that's all. There's a sour-smelling duvet and some scattered clothing that Lestrade doesn't want to look at more closely. His officers are _just outside_. There's nothing to be getting his heartbeat racing like this, nothing to cause his breathing to come in such harsh pants, but he can't help himself. The pale gleam of Sherlock's eyes are mesmerising and Lestrade actually stumbles back a step before he catches himself. Sherlock still doesn't stop. He only brings himself to a halt when he's well within Lestrade's personal space, only a couple of inches away. Sherlock is taller than him. That's disconcerting too.

Sherlock blinks. His eyelashes are thick and rescue his eyes from their pale obscurity. Lestrade's mouth is dry, he wants to swallow. There's a faint tang of chemicals about Sherlock. Is he a science student? He could be student age. He could work in a lab, he's pale enough for a lab geek. Or something worse... Lestrade's thoughts are going crazy places now. Sherlock's breath is warm, ghosting over his mouth, and he hates it in himself, but there's a thread of arousal twining into the moment, at this assumed dominance, at Sherlock's confidence. At the determined hint of boy's stubble he can see, now he's so close. Lestrade would back off now, authority be damned, but there's nowhere he can run. The backs of his knees are firm against the bed.

"I'm going to go now, if that's alright with you?" Sherlock's mouth twitches, but his eyes stay serious, solemn even. "I don't want to worry you, but unscrupulous people might take advantage of your latent homosexuality, you know. Or should I say bisexuality, as I'm sure you consider yourself at least that, given the wedding ring... Oh. Or perhaps not?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow in surprise but Lestrade is in no state to remember that he once surprised Sherlock Holmes. He feels confused, and horrified, and terribly, suffocatingly guilty. It's a secret that he's buried down deep, almost far enough that he can forget about it himself. That he never minds a night or two on the sofa, that it's more restful than his memory-foam mattress because it doesn't come with a side order of lies. That their dog is a border collie because she needs long walks, because she takes him out of the house for hours at a time. That... He breathes out in a desperate sigh. Sherlock's proximity is getting harder. He wants to touch. He wants to push him away. He ends up paralysed in terror.

"I won't say anything, you know." Sherlock's tone is mild. Lestrade still can't get over how young he is. How insane and pushy he is. "We all have secrets. Things we'd rather not have… brought to light."

His mouth twists in some kind of disdain, and Lestrade feels shame that this hellish, beautiful boy feels that way about him - and is horrified by that too.

"I myself am only here because Seb... Well, never mind that." Sherlock reaches between them, his hands brushing against Lestrade's body in the process, a finger flicked near his trousers, his shirt, hints of contact, not inappropriate, not quite. Lestrade can't breathe.

Sherlock finishes with smoothing his hand down Lestrade's chest, before peeling aside his overcoat. His fingers feel like they are hot brands through the thin cotton. He tucks a card into Lestrade's shirt pocket.

"I'm starting a business," Sherlock continues, as though what they are doing is the most normal thing in the world. "I think you'll need me. I think you've needed me for quite some time. Do ring when you need other things... uncovering. Interesting problems that need solving. That kind of thing."

He steps away, and Lestrade sags, almost stumbling, as though a string between them has been cut. He glares up at Sherlock with something not quite like hate.

Sherlock's lips quirk into a smile. "I warn you, I've been on my best behaviour today, since this has been a kind of job interview. I can't promise I'll always be this nice."

And he goes to walk away.

It can't be like this, so easy, so impossible, it just can't. "Wait...!" Lestrade calls after him. His voice is hoarse, he wants to clear his throat. "All that stuff. About me. Who told you...?"

"Oh, really. Did I not just explain? Fine." He raises his eyes to the ceiling as though Lestrade has just tried the patience of a saint. "You have a dog's hair of a distinct colour and coarseness on your trousers at knee height. Your shoes are worn down at the heel despite being comparatively new, and still have mud around the edges of the sole despite your attempts to polish them, indicating a great deal of time out of doors in one or more of London's parks and gardens. I'd say Green Park, but I would need a closer look at the mud to definitively confirm that. They are demonstrably the shoes you wear for work and are unsuitable for walking the dog, but you make no attempt to change them once you get home, which means you are not keen to linger. You didn't walk the dog last night because there is no sign of the rain that fell all evening on your shoes or coat, and so as border collies need a great deal of exercise every day I conclude your wife must have done so in your place. Despite that same wedding ring, you have the remains of cushion indentations on the left side of your neck, so I also conclude that you were sleeping on the sofa last night as a punishment. The fact that this may be habitual is indicated by the overtime slip that is poking out of your coat pocket."

Sherlock's pale eyes looked almost otherworldly in the grey light from the window. Lestrade felt like he was reeling.

"And of course, the conclusions regarding your sexuality? Were apparent to another practitioner, as it were, especially at such close range. Simple really."

He takes a step outside the door of the room. "Are you coming?"

Lestrade follows him because it's all he's capable of doing. He's been trained for situations like this - except there are no situations _quite_ like this one. He shouldn't have let Sherlock get to him, or even talk as much as he has, he knows that. Lestrade should have taken control, should have kept the initiative, directed the encounter, but he failed to do so. He's failed in a lot of things, let's face it. Sherlock knows such impossible information, and Lestrade is reeling, still. He can't help himself, and the shame keeps burning at him deep inside.

They step out into the living room and Lestrade shakes his head when his officers look quizzically at Sherlock. He must be better at fooling people than he realises, because they don't seem to see anything wrong, just carry on down the stairs with the other pair in cuffs. Lestrade eyes Sherlock sidelong, his heart still beating wildly. Sherlock's head is bowed, his shoulders rounded. He looks chastised, as though Lestrade has actually been doing his job. Then he turns his head slightly and grins, wicked and sly, as though letting Lestrade in on some particularly delicious joke.

He leaves it at that, of course. Which means letting Sherlock go. Lestrade feels he has no choice. It's not blackmail, not quite. And Sherlock never does use any of his deductions against him, at least to his knowledge. Once Lestrade knows Sherlock better, he rather marvels at that. He'd make a bloody scary criminal.

Lestrade keeps the card too. He even begins to use it. You keep your friends close and your enemies closer, as the saying goes. And Sherlock? Lestrade doesn't really know which one he'll turn out to be.

He sticks close anyway, until he finds out.


End file.
